Something To Believe In
by NightSpear
Summary: Pre-series. 1992: Left with Pastor Jim during Dean's first hunt, Sam begins to ask questions and think about what he believes in.


Title: Something to Believe In

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: This is what I was going for when I started "Prodigal." That turned out a little...different, so I tried again from scratch. Part of this is based on a backstory mentioned in "Finding Home." As always, the discussion of religion here is based partially on my personal experience but is not my personal view, nor is it meant to offend in any way.

XXXXXXXXXX

"To ask for. Present tense. _Rogare_."

"_Rogo, rogas, rogat_," Sam recited, "_rogamus, rogatis, rogant_."

"Good. To pray."

"_Precor_...wait, which one?

Pastor Jim didn't look up from his research, but Sam could see his small smile. "Very good, Samuel. Use _orare_."

Sam frowned. "_Oro, oras, orat, oramus, oratis, orant_. It really matters how you conjugate the verb, Pastor Jim?"

"Of course it matters. Everything about a language matters if you want to speak it properly, or no one will understand what you're saying."

"But I'm not learning it to speak to people, am I? I don't know anyone who actually _speaks_ Latin." Besides Pastor Jim, anyway, and Dean, a little. And maybe Dad, though he wasn't sure about that since he'd never heard Dad speak it very much. And Uncle Bobby. "Just hunters."

The man looked up now. He hesitated, then said, "You know about the things your father hunts?"

Biting his lip, he replied, "Yeah. I found Dad's journal."

"Good—well. Not necessarily good, I suppose...but that will make it easier to understand. These lessons...they're not just to teach you Latin."

"I know _that_," Sam said, scoffing. "I figured that out ages ago. I've seen Dad memorizing Latin stuff before he goes to work. To hunt, I mean," he amended, because he knew now that going to work didn't mean the same thing to his dad that it did to other people's dads.

"That's right. Those passages he was memorizing were...well, they're called—"

"Exorcisms, I _know_, Pastor Jim," Sam said impatiently, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I don't study when I'm not here. Oh," he realized, feeling stupid, "you mean you have to use all the right forms when you do exorcisms."

Pastor Jim's eyebrows were raised, but he said, "Ah... That's right, Samuel. Exactly. And it's always better to understand something instead of just memorizing. I try to tell your father that all the time," he said, as if confiding a secret, "but he usually just tries to learn it all by heart instead. And, let me tell you, your pronunciation is _much_ better than his."

Sam didn't answer the pastor's smile. "But Dean's better than Dad is, right? You make him learn, too?"

"You can't make a person learn something if he really doesn't want to. Your brother...well, I've pounded a little into his skull, but he likes target practice more than verb conjugation, you know that."

Sam looked down at his hands. "But it's not safe for them," he protested miserably. "If they don't know Latin that well they could mess it up and get hurt!"

A sigh came from in front of him, and he looked up to see his tutor push his chair back from his desk. "Why is it that I never remember to choose my words more carefully around you Winchesters?" the man said, a wry smile floating on his lips.

Sam scrunched his eyebrows, not understanding. "Huh?"

Pastor Jim crouched next to his chair. "Samuel...Sam. You've been distracted since your father and brother left. Are you worried about them?"

"Yes!" he cried, then blushed and lowered his voice. "Dad used to come home with bandages and things, and I never knew why...and now Dean's going with him! What if they..." He trailed off, not knowing exactly what happened if a hunt went badly, but he wasn't stupid; he knew it could be serious.

"Sam, do you know what they're hunting?"

"No," he answered sullenly. "Dad told Dean not to tell me. Said I wasn't mature enough to be _judicious_ with the information."

"He...said that?"

"Uh huh." Dad had started to use big words now when he talked to Dean when Sam could hear, as if he thought Sam wouldn't understand that way. Sam thought that was pretty stupid, since they were just going to drop him off with a man who made him look things up in dictionaries and encyclopedias, anyway. When no answer came, he looked more closely at Pastor Jim's face to find an expression he didn't completely understand, but he'd seen it a few times before, those times when he and Dean hid around the corner to listen in while the pastor argued with their dad. "But he's allowed to," Sam added reluctantly, because that was what Dean had told him when he'd complained about it later.

"Sam," Pastor Jim sighed. "I was just thinking that..." He stopped, not continuing until Sam had started to squirm a little under the stare. "I won't interfere with the way your father does things, but it doesn't seem fair to me that you know about the danger without knowing the rest of the situation. Perhaps I can give you a few books to read while your father and brother are away."

"So...you know what they're hunting?" Sam asked hopefully, then bit his lip. "Is it a demon?"

Pastor Jim chuckled a little. "No, it's not a demon. It's just a poltergeist, so you don't have to worry about their Latin."

"A poltergeist. That's a spirit, right?"

"Not exactly, no." Pastor Jim leaned back against the edge of his desk. "Poltergeists weren't ever real people—they're just a kind of leftover energy. They can be dangerous, but nothing like a demon. This job should be very easy for your father."

"Oh." Sam was quiet for a while, fidgeting. Finally, he admitted, "I kinda wish I never found Dad's journal."

"Why do you say that? I know you were curious before."

"Well, sure. But that's because I knew _something_ was going on. I mean, I've heard Dad talking to people on the phone about things that didn't make sense, and no one would explain." Nightmares had filled in those blanks, although afterward, Dean had told him his imagination was just too melodramatic. "And I like learning about this stuff, but..."

"But what, Sam?"

"Dad never took Dean with him until I sneaked into his things and read the journal. It was like a secret, right? But once I found out, they didn't need to pretend anymore, and now Dean might be...I dunno."

"Samuel, your father will take care of him. That's why he picked this for Dean's first hunt—it's good experience but won't get too dangerous. He won't let anything bad happen to you or your brother."

Sam thought over this for a moment, then said, "Dean says Dad's a superhero."

Something sad flickered in Pastor Jim's face again—Sam wasn't sure why, because a hero was a good thing, right?—but then he answered, "I suppose Dean would say that. What do you think, Sam?"

"I think _Dean's_ a superhero," Sam replied promptly, without thinking, then blushing furiously when he heard what he'd just said. The sadness in Pastor didn't quite disappear, but some amusement took its place. "I mean, not like a _real_ superhero, like in cartoons." The amusement deepened, and Sam explained, "If Dad takes care of Dean and he's a superhero, then Dean should be, too, because he takes care of me. Normal kids aren't like that, are they." It wasn't a question. Sam had been noticing for years, but he knew very well now that twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys played baseball or had friends over after school instead of staying home to take care of their little brothers. He also knew that dads usually did that part.

Pastor Jim opened his mouth, then seemed to change his mind and closed it instead. "Well, I think all three of you Winchesters take care of each other." Sam tried to protest that he didn't take care of anyone, but the man cut him off with a gentle, "Let's continue with verbs, Samuel. A harder one, this time. _To pray_, but use _precor_."

Sam sighed, feeling the redness starting to fade from his cheeks as he immersed himself back into that zone where nothing mattered but words and tenses and roots and endings. "_Precor, precaris, precatur..._"

XXXXXXXXXX

"It's Friday," Sam announced when he found Pastor Jim in the kitchen one morning. When he only received a set of raised eyebrows in response, he explained, "Dad and Dean will be home today. He said a week." Sam tried not to think about how, last winter, Dad had said the same thing, and Sam had spent Christmas alone with Dean.

"He did, didn't he?" Pastor Jim said, his tone neutral. "Would you like some pancakes?"

Sam ignored the question. "Has he called yet?"

"No, not yet. Pancakes, Samuel?"

"Yes, please," he answered politely, then pressed, "But they'll be back, right?" He waited until both plates had been placed on the table. "Pastor Jim? They'll—"

"I hope so, Samuel," the man cut in. "Still, sometimes hunts take longer than we expect."

A pang of fear made him put his fork down. "But it's an easy hunt, right? That's what you said."

"And I'm sure it's going—or rather, already _went_—fine. I simply don't want you to worry if they end up being a little late. Now, eat your breakfast."

"I'm not really hungry," Sam said, making Pastor Jim frown at him.

"Unless you're sick, you will eat at least a few bites."

Sam obeyed unenthusiastically, his good mood dampened. When he sighed and rested his head in one hand, Pastor Jim took a deliberate sip of juice, cleared his throat, and said, "Did you review the subjects we talked about yesterday?"

He had, of course—Dean might be bigger and stronger than he was, but Sam was good at studying. "Yes, Pastor Jim."

"Tell me the important things to look for when you suspect a werewolf attack."

Sitting up straighter and perking up, he listed, "The lunar cycle. The location of the attacks. The condition of the victims." No one would tell him exactly what condition that was, but he _did_ know it was important. "For all recent attacks," he added, "in case it wasn't the first time the werewolf attacked."

"Good." Pastor Jim took a bite of his breakfast, and Sam automatically did the same. "What are the easiest ways to protect yourself against a spirit?"

Sam rolled his eyes, because that was _easy_. "Salt," he started, "cold iron..."

Fifteen minutes later, he'd finished his breakfast and the review. Pastor Jim sent him to the study with a book, and for the next few hours, he forgot to wonder and worry about when Dean and Dad were going to be coming back.

At eleven o' clock that night, though, he was still awake when Pastor Jim came to the guest room where Sam was staying. "Samuel, it's late. You should be in bed."

"They're not coming home today are they?" Sam didn't like to use the word _home_ most of the time, because _home_ was too important a word for the motels they stayed in for a few weeks at at time, but Blue Earth felt as close to it as anything. And they _would_ be home when they came back for him.

"I'm sure they're fine."

"Then why don't they call?"

"Sam..."

"He would call!" Sam insisted, "He would, he knows I hate it when Dad's gone, he wouldn't just forget about me, something must have gone _wrong_—"

"Shh, Sammy. Shh...it's okay..."

It was only when Pastor Jim knelt beside him to lay a hand on his head that Sam realized he'd been close to tears. "How can it be okay?" he whispered, swallowing hard.

"Your father's been late coming back from a hunt before, hasn't he?" Pastor Jim reasoned. "And he's fine."

Frustrated, Sam blinked back the water starting to gather in his eyes. "It's not the same."

"Why? Why is it different this time?"

"Because I know it's not just a sales trip this time!" he burst out. "And...and Dean's not here."

There were a few moment of silence. Then, Pastor Jim sighed and said, "It's very late. I'll bet your father and brother are sleeping now. We'll try to reach them tomorrow, when it's daytime. I know a lot about hunting _and_ a lot about your father, and, Sammy, you don't need to worry. Not yet." Not completely convinced but a little comforted anyway, Sam ducked his head and nodded. "Get some sleep. If you need me, my room is—"

"I know," Sam interrupted hastily, feeling a bit embarrassed. "I'm fine. Really, it's okay," he added when Pastor Jim seemed reluctant to leave. "Goodnight."

When the door closed, he burrowed deep into the blankets, closed his eyes, and whispered into his pillow, "_Spero, sperabam, sperabo. __Speravi..._"

XXXXXXXXXX

When Sunday came with no word, Sam knew something was wrong.

He locked himself in the study while Pastor Jim was busy with church services. Something must be wrong, because they'd never leave him like this—he just had to find the right books that explained about poltergeists and what to do against them, and then he could convince Pastor Jim to let him go help them.

There were a lot of books on shelves too high for him to reach, but that was okay for now—there were so many books that he'd just start at the bottom and worry about the other ones later. He had to push down a sound of frustration (because he was _not_ going to whine) when he realized most of them didn't even have words on the spines and he'd have to take each one off the shelf to look at it, and then put it back because everything was so neat and organized and Sam _hated_ it when things were messy...

He'd made it to the second row of shelves from the bottom when he suddenly couldn't read the book in his hands. He squinted, hoping it would make it clearer, but that only made it worse, and he couldn't breathe right, and something wet was rolling down his cheek. Pulling in a short but sharp breath, he angrily dashed a hand across his eyes, because Dean would laugh at him for_ever_ if he saw Sam crying, except Dean _wasn't here, please, Dean, where are you?_

There was a sound at the door, and Sam whirled. He heard a knocking, and then, "Sam? Are you in there?"

The book in his hands dropped with a loud thump, making Sam flinch with an embarrassing squeak. "Pa-Pastor Jim?" he called back.

"Samuel, please unlock this door."

Sam wanted to, he really did, because it wasn't polite to lock people out of their own rooms even if they had the keys, but it turned out he was sitting on the floor, and his legs didn't want to get up. He couldn't really see the door, either, because his eyes were still wet and all the water kept coming back as soon as he wiped it away. With a sudden pang so deep it was like a wrenching cramp, he wanted Dean, and then suddenly he was taking huge, gulping breaths, but it still felt like he was drowning in all the tears.

He didn't know when Pastor Jim unlocked the door and came in, but eventually he noticed that he was being rocked back and forth, and that it seemed even wetter than it had before because the tears were getting onto Pastor Jim's front with Sam's head pressed against the wet spot. Pastor Jim was tall, but not so big as Dad, and too tall and bony for it to feel like Dean, but he was warm and safe, so Sam closed his fists on familiar black cloth and leaned into Pastor Jim until he could breathe again.

"Why don't they call?" he whispered, but he wasn't expecting an answer anymore.

"They will."

"How do you _know_?" His breath hitched and he buried his face again. "You don't _know_ that."

"I trust your father, and so should you. There are a lot of things we can't know for certain, Sammy. Sometimes we just have to believe."

"Like what?" Sam let himself lean into Pastor Jim for a while, the man's clothing reminding him that he was in a church, and finally ventured, "You mean, like God?"

"I don't mean just...well, yes, as an example."

"Dad says God's not real."

The arms around him tightened, and he was pushed away a little to meet the man's the eyes. "He said that to you?"

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "No, not to me. Dad doesn't talk about stuff like that with us. But I heard him telling Uncle Bobby."

Pastor Jim was still looking thoughtfully at him. "What do you think?"

Sam shrugged. "Dean doesn't believe in God, either."

"No, Sam; not your brother or your father or Bobby Singer. What about _you_?"

Unsure, he stammered, "I...I don't...I dunno. I've never...I mean, we never really go to church or anything. Besides here."

Pastor Jim rose to his feet and held out a hand for Sam to take. "Come with me, Sam. I want to show you something."

"Show me what?"

"You've gotten much better at Latin. I have a few other things you can study."

"Don't wanna study," he said, but followed the man into the study, because, fine, he _was_ a tiny bit curious.

A book was placed in front of him. Scrubbing one last time at his eyes, Sam looked at the cover, then said skeptically, "The Bible? You want me to read the Bible? You mean, because so many rituals are based on Christian rites?" He suspected that wasn't it, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be forced to start praying and sitting through Mass—it looked pretty boring.

Pastor Jim shook his head. "Not because of that. And I won't make you, but you can read it if you want. Today, we're just going to study Latin. I'm going to teach you something new for now. It's like...a little like the rituals I asked you to learn before, but it has a different purpose and meaning. You can memorize it, but remember what I told you: understanding it is much more important than just knowing the words."

"What is it?" Sam said warily, sniffing once.

"I'll say it first, and then I'll have you say it with me. After you've had a chance to translate it and think it over, if you want, I'll talk with you about it and what it means. I know you like this kind of exercise," Pastor Jim said, adding an encouraging smile.

"Okay," Sam said. His nose was still running, but he felt like he was on steadier, more familiar ground. He was getting good at translations. He could do this.

"This is known as the Lord's Prayer. Listen first. _Pater noster, qui es in caelis..._"

XXXXXXXXXX

"Whenever you pray, it has to be like that?" Sam asked later, his nose wrinkling in spite of himself.

"You know, I think you have prayed before already," Pastor Jim answered, "even though you didn't know it."

"What's that mean?"

"Sam, what do you think it means to pray?"

After a moment's consideration, he tried, "It's when you ask God for something."

Pastor Jim's lips twitched. "That's not all it is. Prayer is your relationship with God—or with the world around you, or the people you love. It depends on what you believe in."

"So it doesn't have to sound like, '_Pater noster, qui es in_...'?"

"It doesn't matter what it sounds like. Every person sees faith differently, and how you pray is for yourself alone."

Over dinner that night, Sam distractedly pushed a pile of peas into meaningless designs until Pastor Jim asked, "What's the matter?"

"Dad says not to trust in anything I can't see for myself."

"That's smart, a lot of the time. But can you think of anything you trust that you can't see? Maybe you can see proof of something without seeing it itself."

He shrugged and didn't look up from his plate.

"How about this. Your father loves you, right?" When Sam didn't answer, he prompted more sternly, "Samuel. Your father and your brother, they love you, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"But I bet they don't say it very often."

"No, not really. But it's okay," he added quickly, because some teachers at school looked at him funny and had weird ideas about having to say it all the time even if you knew it anyway.

"Because you know it's true. Even though you don't hear it or see it."

Sam peeked up through his bangs. "Yeah," he agreed hesitantly. He _could_ see it sometimes, kind of, in the way Dean didn't punch him as hard when he was sick and punched him a little harder when he was unhappy. Other people didn't understand, but he knew. Maybe that's what it meant.

"Well, some people believe that there is another Father who loves you, too."

He looked up sharply at that, frowning. "God's not...he's not my _Dad_."

"No, no. Of course no one can take the place of your dad. I believe God is a Father, but He is also the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and more than that, all at once."

"I don't get it." Except he did, a little, because he did know how someone could be father and son and brother and more, all at once. "Can I still read the Bible you showed me?"

Approval lit Pastor Jim's eyes. "Of course. And you know you can always come to me with questions. But start after dinner. For now, Samuel...Sam." He waited until Sam was looking up. "What have you been reading the last few days?"

He had to think hard to remember, but finally, he said, "The _Codex Regius_. I got up to the _Si—Sigr-dri-fumal_ translation," he enunciated carefully, hoping he was saying it right. "You said I could look at any of the books in the study. I was careful," he added quickly, because it was the oldest thing he'd ever read and he'd thought he was going to tear it when he'd first picked it up.

"I'm sure you were," Pastor Jim said, his eyebrows high. "I'm a little...surprised at the choice. It's a little advanced—but you're right, I _did_ say you could read it. Did you understand it?"

"Not all of it. Not _most_ of it," Sam admitted, "but I liked the stories. Is it real? The things in it, I mean?"

"Well, it was from a long time ago. I'm not sure all the stories happened exactly that way."

"But the runes? Are they really magic?"

"Magic?" Pastor Jim seemed to consider. "We don't usually call it that, but certain runes and sigils do have power." He took a sip of water, and Sam did the same. "I can teach you about them, if you'd like."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Now, eat your vegetables."

Absently, thinking about runes, Sam ate his vegetables.

The next morning, he asked, "Pastor Jim?"

"Yes, Samuel."

"What did you mean yesterday? About knowing God is there even though you can't see Him?"

Closing a book, Pastor Jim said, "What do you think God is?"

Sam shrugged. "I was hoping you would tell me," he said, a little sheepishly.

Amused, Jim said, "One day, perhaps you'll find out for yourself. Your dad's ideas are probably very different from mine, for example."

He scowled. "Dad's not always right." Dad lied, sometimes. To him an maybe to Dean, even.

"No, not always," Pastor Jim conceded carefully, "although it's still worth listening to him—he cares a lot for you and your brother. And remember, I'm not always right, either. But if you want, I'll tell you a small part of the reason that _I_ know God is there." Sam nodded and sat straighter to pay attention. "I have a lot of friends with dangerous jobs, Samuel. Every time I think a friend is lost to us forever, and then I hear that he's returned home safely, I know there was someone watching over him."

"Dad says when that happens, it's because they paid attention during training."

"He would say that," Pastor Jim said with a chuckle. "And I'm not saying he's wrong—training and hard work are important. But with the things I've seen—the times I was sure there was no way we could avoid death, only to make it out alive—I can't help but think there might be something more."

"Is that why you're Pastor Jim? I mean," he amended, "why you're a pastor."

"That's...not the whole reason, but it's part of it." Sam scrunched his forehead, not completely convinced by the reasoning. "I'm not going to try to make you believe anything you don't want to, Samuel. That's for you to decide—for you to see for yourself. To feel for yourself."

"What do you pray for, Pastor Jim?"

"Prayer is very personal," Pastor Jim said. Sam blushed and started to apologize, but he continued, "Me? I pray for the people I love."

"You have family?" Sam had never seen anyone related to the man around.

There was a short pause, and then, "Not blood family. But you, Dean, your father, other close friends...you're like family to me."

"You're like family to me too," Sam agreed.

Pastor Jim smiled at that. "Well. I pray for you and your family, that you stay safe and happy."

After a moment, he asked tentatively, "I can do that, too, can't I? For Dean and Dad. Will it protect them?"

"Maybe, but it won't hurt," Pastor Jim told him.

Sam spent Monday learning the Lord's Prayer, and the Ave Maria, and everything else Pastor Jim set before him, but those were just Latin practice. Praying was different—it was looking out the window and wondering when they would come back to him. If no one ever heard him aloud, it didn't matter, because maybe there was a God, and Pastor Jim said that He would hear. It was better than curling up in the corner, because crying didn't do any good—he'd known that for years, and he wasn't a little kid, after all.

On Tuesday, he practiced drawing out runes and memorizing what they meant.

"How do you say these, Pastor Jim?" he asked. "What's this one?"

"Kenaz, Sam."

"And this one?"

"Thurisaz."

On Wednesday, Pastor Jim handed him a rosary.

"I thought you said you weren't going to try to make me believe in God," Sam said as he fingered the cross. It was different from the ones he usually saw, made of some kind of metal.

"And I'm still not," Pastor Jim said. "Your dad has one of these, too. It helps in some rituals, whether you believe in God or not. For protection against some demons, for example."

Sam looked up at that. "Dad doesn't let me do any rituals yet." Even though he knew most of them by heart, he added silently.

Pastor Jim shrugged. "Well, I thought it might make you feel safer. You know about what's hiding out there in the dark, now. You understand the dangers. It seems only fair that you know about the ways to protect yourself."

Examining the cross closer, Sam frowned. "Is this cold iron, Pastor Jim?"

He got a wink in return. "That helps, too."

"So Dad really uses one of these?"

"I've seen it," Pastor Jim assured him. "You have to understand, Sam. Belief comes in a lot of different forms, but whatever your faith, you need to find _something_ to believe in. It's important for this line of work."

Sam wasn't sure he understood what Dad believed in, but he tucked the rosary carefully away, anyway. Dean believed in Dad. Maybe Sam just needed something to believe, too, and they would all be safe.

"And speaking of that," Pastor Jim was saying, "what is the verb '_to believe_'?"

"_Credo_," Sam answered promptly, "_credere, credidi, creditus_."

XXXXXXXXXX

On Thursday, Dad called.

"They're fine," Pastor Jim told him, relief peeking through the grin on his own face. "Neither of them is hurt at all. They had some car troubles and couldn't reach a phone."

"For so long?"

Pastor Jim started explaining it to him, but Sam didn't really hear it, his mind buzzing with excitement that they were coming back and resentment that he'd been left behind to begin with.

"Your father always pulls through," the man said with a wink. "Have faith in them."

Sam gave him a smile but dropped it when his back was turned.

It was Friday again when Sam heard the Impala. Up in his room, he put down the book he'd been reading but didn't move from the bed where he sat and didn't even look up when he heard the familiar voice he'd been praying for all week.

"Hey, Sammy! What, not enough reading during the school year? You have to read on vacation, too?" Sam didn't dare to move, but the stiff, sullen response was automatic.

"It's not vacation. Just because Dad pulled us out of school again so he could go on this hunt doesn't mean—"

"Yeah, whatever," Dean brushed off airily. "Don't tell me you'd rather be taking math class now?" Then he snorted. "Well, you probably would, actually."

"What took you so long?"

"Aw, look at you. Did you miss—"

"Dean! Stop joking!" His voice was almost a shout now, and probably would have been had he not been able to hear Dad and Pastor Jim downstairs.

"Well, geez, sor-_ry_," Dean drawled, clearly taken aback but also clearly not that sorry at all.

"You're a jerk."

"Oh, come on," Dean said, finally dropping the bag he'd been carrying. "Don't be such a drama queen. It's not that big a deal."

Sam opened his mouth but found he didn't know how to respond to that. He snapped his jaw shut, not sure he wasn't going to start to bawl like a little kid. If he did, Dean would say something like _'It's okay, you are a little girl, Samantha,'_ and Sam didn't wanted to hear it because was so mad at Dad for staying away so long and at Dean for acting like it was okay, and he wanted to throw himself at Dean and not let go except that Dean would call him a little girl and…well.

Then Dean really looked at the book in Sam's hands. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and said, "You're reading the Bible? You really are going for the whole choirboy thing, aren't you? We don't even go to church, dude." Sam wanted to laugh at him, since they were on church grounds right then, but he started crying instead and somehow ended up half-asleep and curled up under Dean's chin while his brother called him a little girl and tucked him in.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he heard before he drifted off, and he knew that Dean _was_ really sorry that time, so he snuggled in closer.

"It's okay," he whispered back. He fell asleep thinking, _Frater, fratris, fratri, fratrem..._

XXXXXXXXXX

"Why not?" Dean asked two weeks later.

Sam didn't get up from where he was curled in bed but pressed his lips tightly together. "I don't want you to go," he insisted again.

"I thought you liked all this hunting stuff. You're always reading about it."

_Because it makes me feel safe_, he thought. "Because Dad won't let me go and help otherwise."

"That's 'cause you're a kid," Dean scoffed.

"So're you."

"Am not."

And Sam knew that Dean was right—his thirteen-year old brother _wasn't_ a kid, and that was the whole point. He sighed. "Never mind. Just go hunt if you like it so much."

" 'If I like it so much?' This is just how it is, Sam. This is our life."

"It doesn't have to be," he said, knowing it sounded like he was pleading and not caring. "It doesn't have to be, Dean. We don't have to do this."

"What?" Dean seemed genuinely confused. "Of course we do. You like it, too, I know you do. Come on, it's practically a geek heaven, with all the research we have to do. It's better than being at school, even."

"Well, maybe I _want_ to be in school."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Only you."

Feeling like he was losing whatever control of the situation he'd had to begin with, he warned, "I'll run away."

But that only made Dean laugh. "No, you won't. You love us."

It was a joke, of course. Dean never said something like unless he was joking. Sam wanted to scream at him that it wasn't a joke, and that was why he didn't want to watch them leave him again. Instead, he promised, "One day, I'll run away and stay at school and never come back." Even as the words came out, he knew how ridiculous they sounded.

"Yeah, and I'll just find you and pick you up like usual. You're not being serious, dude."

"What if you're not there to find me?" Sam countered defiantly, though the defiance was ruined by the way his voice was all tight. "Why won't you even tell me what you're going to hunt?"

"'Cause Dad said not to. What does it matter?" Dean said, exasperated. "Geez, Sam it's not a big deal."

It _was_ a big deal to him. No one seemed to understand that. "What if you get hurt?"

"I won't get hurt, God. What's wrong with you lately?"

Sam rolled over and turned his back to Dean. One day. He'd run away from them first, and then they'd never be able to leave him anymore. _One day. You see if I don't._

"Come on, Sammy, say something." Dean was still standing there. From behind him, Sam heard his puzzled voice say, "We'll be fine, Sam." When no answer came, Dean sighed and padded softly out of the room.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.

**FIN**

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Notes:

Latin: (forgive me if I'm off a little—it's been a few years—but I think they should be right. Please tell me if you spot a mistake)

Rogare (rogo, rogas, rogat...etc): to ask for (conjugated in present tense)

Precari (precor, precaris, precatur...): to pray or beseech (conjugated in present tense)

Orare (oro, oras, orat...etc.): to pray (conjugated in present tense)

Sperare (spero, sperabam, etc.): to hope ('I hope, I hoped, I will hope, I have hoped...')

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis...:_ from the Lord's Prayer ('Our Father, who art in heaven...')

Credere (credo, credere, credidi, creditus): to believe (the four principal parts of the verb)

Frater (frater, fratris, fratri, fratrem...): brother (declined in different cases)


End file.
